


Crossroads

by voodoonot



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Beta Wanted, Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, Human!Alastor, Human!Angel Dust, Intersex Angel Dust, Lots of illegal things, M/M, Mobster Angel Dust, Murder, NSFW in later chapters, Voodoo, radiodust - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22698034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoonot/pseuds/voodoonot
Summary: A mafioso’s and a murderous radio star’s paths collide in New Orleans in the winter of 1933.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: First chapters are always so hard, especially when you haven’t written in years. I hope you guys like it enough to stick around for eleven more chapters and an epilogue! The entire story is outlined and the second chapter is written and undergoing revision. This is very much a fanfic that allows me to explore so many of my interests and I want to do a decent job on it, so expect rewrites of some chapters once the story is fully written. I’m also trying very hard to keep things as historically and culturally accurate as possible (save for Husk’s presence), so if you guys see anything that is inaccurate, please let me know! I’m very sure that there are some pacing issues with this chapter, so sorry about that! This very short chapter in particular will very likely be revamped as the story progresses. I am looking for a beta reader for the entire work!
> 
> Additional Notes:
> 
> Alastor’s surname in this work is Mandeville- a play on “Man Devil,” of course, which I found to be a terrible pun while also being suitable. 
> 
> Arackniss is named Arthur. Their surname, surprise! is Italian for “spider.” Henroin is named Henry.
> 
> Rusty and Dusty Caprio are nods to Razzle and Dazzle (“Caprio” being Italian for “goat”), and Lucien Mayne is a nod to Lucifer Magne. Mayne is French for “Powerful,” and if written sloppily enough, looks like Magne. Husker is Husker, despite the historical inaccuracy.
> 
> Alastor’s radio station is meant to be at the location of WWOZ New Orleans - 90.7 FM in present day.
> 
> Song used is Ethel Waters’ “Stormy Weather,” which was produced in 1933.
> 
> Feel free to leave comments and asks about the work at my tumblr inbox @voodoonot!
> 
> -Cabbage

**  
Chapter One**

_-Friday, December 15, 1933-_

_The bayou of New Orleans was drowned in full-moonlight and thronged with stars bright upon silent stillwater._

A rustle from the fog-laden brambles gave way to a young doe like a figment, far from home and prickling with potent unease. She slipped past a cluster of cypress trees and weaved around swampy water and twigs, her ears tuned to her surroundings. The risk of encountering a lurking gator was high, she knew, and so she stepped lightly with great care and punctuality. And yet the gators were the very least of her worries.

She was being hunted.

She had previously found herself caught in a snare, and one of her pale forelimbs oozed hot with scarlet affliction. But she had escaped, and she had fled, and now she was lost with only the stars to guide her home and a hunter on her tail.

She wearily delved into a dense thicket to mend her wounds. For hours, she stayed and listened- to the chirp of crickets, to the call of the heron, to the croaking pickerels. Daybreak was on the horizon when she deemed it safe to continue on, the blue haze of dusk deluging the bayou like an omnipotent yet inquisitive spirit.

A sudden splash and sheer panic thereafter, she had stumbled into the waters on her mutilated limb and found it caught between sharp rocks. The more that she thrashed about in her hysteria, the tighter that they seemed to lock down on her flesh and bone like carnivorous teeth. Then a wave of perceptive cognisance washed over her and she stilled herself and lifted her head toward a towering tallow, its late-autumn foliage dressed in shades of sanguine. There was, unmistakably, a smile ablaze deep within the shadows. Her tail waved tall, a white flag of surrender; and there was nothing left but the inert communication between the two entities, some unspoken understanding, a pact made, and a fate sealed. A shot fired and a resounding splash as dead weight decendended into the swamp at the first crack of sunlight.

Her corpse was thrown over his shoulder with ease and an air of practised nonchalance. The mangled forelimb, weeping red, dangled lifelessly across the small of his back. Something lustrous around her pastern glinted in the rising sun, and locks of gold from loosened hair pins spilled over the hunter’s broad scapulae.

All was never well in New Orleans.

* * *

_-Sunday, December 17, 1933-_

Anthony Ragno and his brother, Arthur, had travelled by train to Louisiana in pursuit of a man. It was a mob job assigned by their father, the infamous Henry Ragno. The brothers were accustomed to handling dirty work in neighbouring cities and then some, going so far as Chicago, but traveling to the deep South was unreservedly unorthodox. Anthony was still being kept in the dark about what the actual task was, and what made it so consequential that he, Arthur, and two newly recruited grunts (Rusty and Dusty Caprio, respectively) alone were sent over a thousand miles from home to deal with it. Of course, Anthony was always the last one to know the details of any job, and Arthur, always the first. That was simply the way that things worked in the Ragno family business. Arthur was Henry’s pride and joy, and Anthony was not.

The young mafioso fast found himself sat alone, waiting on his brother to return from hotel check-in, at a bar on Bourbon Street with a half-drained sazerac. Prohibition had ended only over one week ago, and there had been no time wasted in the legal reopening of bars. Being mafiosi, Prohibition did little to constrain the Ragno gang from liquor- through some complex network of the Underworld, they had made a fortune in the last thirteen years by bootlegging and selling to juice joints in a perilous, perpetual game with the law. That was the thrill of it, of course, and far from the only organised crime that they managed as one of the six families of New York City’s Italian-American Mafia.

Anthony sensed a storm brewing on the horizon in the way that the static prickled the atmosphere, and in the way that stillness pierced through the evening’s humid veil. Brooklyn would be blanketed in snow this time of year, and New Orleans was only just easing out of a warm autumn. It was strange to him- how thick the Louisianian air felt in his lungs, like the back quarters of a smoke-smothered strip club. A Brooklynite had no business weathering New Orleans; but New Orleans meant business for the Brooklynite.

Beyond the bar counter, the cathedral-fashioned radio crackled to life.

“We will be finishing up this evening’s programming with some breaking news from the city law enforcement in regards to a missing person!” barked the announcer in a Transatlantic timbre.

Anthony downed a sizable swig of his sazerac and produced a barely-audible scoff. A missing person’s case, to him, was hardly passable for evening entertainment. The company surrounding him appeared to be of a differing opinion, with their full attentions toward the yellowed glow of the radio like moths to a flame. A small group of women opposite of Anthony chattered in French amongst themselves, giggling and shifting coquettish glances to and from the device as the announcer continued his broadcast.

“Miss Charlo-“ the audio cut out and the man attempted to start again thrice more, “We appear to be experiencing some technical difficulties, my sincerest apologies, ladies and gentlemen! If you would kindly bear with m-“

Static.

Anthony didn’t know how many minutes had passed before there boomed, “We interrupt this broadcast to-“ followed by a horrific clap of thunder. Anthony cursed under his breath, jolting upright in his stool.

“A severe—- in effect—- sixty-seven miles per—- take shelt—- imme—- tely!”

There was a precipitous series of flickers before the electricity failed with a low, dying drone, and gave way to the storm’s relentless gale. The bar fell silent for some very long moments before the sound of a man’s voice could be heard approaching the door.

_“Don’t know why_

_there’s no sun up in the sky_

_Stormy weather,”_

The door was pushed open with a dreadful creak, and the lyrics devolved into dulcet humming. Dark Oxfords tapped along the hardwood as they carried a tall gentleman toward the bar counter. He was completely and utterly drenched, but a huge smile was plastered upon his face. The bartender turned to him.

“The usual, Al?”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Husker.”

The man lingered a moment, examining the preparation of his Couvousier, prior to taking his seat directly beside the blond boy in pale pinstripes. There were several other empty seats lined among the bar and empty tables scattered about and yet, of all of the choice he was presented with, this man had made the decision to station himself directly beside Anthony. Anthony tried not to stare, dark lashes draped over dark eyes shifting sideways to sneak a better look at this cat. He deduced that if he didn’t _look_ like a wet cat, that he might be very good-looking, all slender stilts and tenebrous traits and oh, he had nice cheekbones.

Husker slid the glass of cognac toward his latest client, raising a quizzical brow. Attenuate digits dressed in jet leather snaked around the glass and drew it to meet a tilted grin.

“Walked here all the way from North Peters in a damn storm for some cognac, Al? You’ve got an automobile.”

Al (Alan? Alfred? Albert? _Al._ ) returned the bartender’s inquiring gesture, and teased at the lip of his glass before replying, “While I appreciate your concern, it’s hardly an eight minute walk, my friend, and you can halve that time if you sprint, about. No need to waste petrol.”

The bartender, albeit apparently familiar with this man’s antics, appeared profusely aghast at the idea of him _sprinting_ an eight-minute walk to the bar in the pouring rain and blustery wind for a glass of cognac. He blinked owlishly, and nodded at the gathering puddle beneath the sopping wet man.

“You’re makin’ a damn mess of my floor.”

“Yes, it would appear that I am.”

Husker retorted with a bemused grumble and turned tail to tend to other clientele. Al nursed at his liquor some more, elatedly carrying on with his humming. Anthony recognised it as a new tune that had become popular that year, and one that he had memorised the lyrics to instantly. It was the sort of torch song that made him want to steal away with his sister’s sensual red dress after midnight and croon to an audience of lovestruck men at a club. Al’s humming captivated him all the same and he lost himself in it so terribly that the storm passed over without so much as rousing him.

“Oh, a Yankee tourist! Those are always interesting.”

Anthony’s eyes widened. He had been caught red-handed, staring at a strange Southern man for some seconds too long. A rush of shame began to befall him, before he registered that Al had been staring at him in return- and long enough to deduce that he was from up North.

“Alastor Mandeville,” the drenched man chimed, extending his hand out toward Anthony. “Radio host.”

_Radio host._

“The name’s Anthony,” he took his hand, “uh, Yankee tourist?”

“Charmed.”

Anthony could feel the apples of his freckled cheeks rise and his eyes squint in turn as he flashed a sheepish simper at his newfound acquaintance. Alastor met it with more enthuse, leaning back in his bar stool and examining the sight before him. Anthony felt exposed under that saccharine stare, as if his skin was being eaten away at, followed by his muscle, and all the way down to his very bone and marrow thereafter. A solution of sugar soaked in water is just subtly acidic, after all.

“An’ what brings ya down t’ N’Orleans, _cher?”_

The prying question and sudden slip of accent threw the boy into a swivet. He had overheard others sporting the same dialect at the train station and on the streets earlier that day, but it was so wildly contrary to a Midatlantic that hearing it from this particular man was hugely unanticipated. He opened his mouth to answer, but was abruptly cut short as a hand clutched his shoulder from behind.

“Come on, Anthony,” Arthur stepped astride him from the shadows to reveal himself, his attention shifting to Alastor, who shot him a vast smile. Arthur shot daggers in retort and lowered his head at ear level with his younger sibling.

With his gaze glued upon Alastor, he hissed, “I leave you for two hours and you’re already chattin’ up Southern pansies, I said let’s go.”

Some minute nuance in Arthur’s black eyes projected an urgency, a desire for a discussion behind deadbolted doors. Anthony’s eyes rolled as far to the back of his skull as they could go, and he stood and pulled his coat and feathered fedora on as he strung after Arthur.

Alastor’s caustic stare remained, burning like coals across the doors after Anthony was long gone- calculating.

Concluding.

* * *

The Hotel Monteleone was the Grand Dame of the French Quarter, and she lived up to her name.

Her lobby basked in a golden light from the crystal chandeliers that hung high, drawing attention to the intricate coffered ceiling and customised crown moulding. Anthony was in awe with it all, and Arthur could not have been more arrantly removed from it in his haste. In the elevator, Anthony noted that, in the fashion of the day, there was no thirteenth floor. And so they ascended to the seventeenth floor- which was really the sixteenth floor- and the very top floor of the hotel itself. There was a nearly unsuppressable urge to push all of the glowing buttons, but given Arthur’s urgent demeanour that grew with each stop that was made for other guests, Anthony kept his hands firmly in his trouser pockets.

Arthur led Anthony into his room and handed him the key, prompting him to take care of it before taking a seat at the desk chair by the window. He had previously brought Anthony’s luggage into the space, and explained that he was in the room to Anthony’s right, and the Caprios to his left, and that there was a continental breakfast in the morning and room service and a bar. Anthony tucked his key away in his coat pocket, and sloppily seated himself across from Arthur on the bed.

“Why the hell are ya frettin’ like a sinner in church?”

Arthur shot his brother a bemused look. He leaned his forearms forward into his lap, inky tresses falling into his dire eyes.

“Oh, scary face, Artie. Real spooky. Come on, spill.”

The younger of the two waggled his fingers animatedly with his words, and the older folded his own beneath his chin and pursed his thin lips.

“Well, Tony,” Anthony grimaced at the nickname (it was unbecoming), “we’re here for a man.”

Anthony’s brows raised together in forged incredulity.

“Really? I could use me one of those, come to think of it.”

Arthur glared and threw a punch at Anthony’s knee. Anthony recoiled with a whimper and rubbed at his abused patella.

“Knock it the fuck off and take things seriously for once in your life, will ya?”

“I might if you would get to the goddamn point already!”

“I’m gettin’ there if you would just fuckin’ listen and have some patience!”

Anthony stuck his tongue out indignantly. Arthur groaned.

“Lucien Mayne.”

“Oh, that egg who helped us bootleg?”

“That’s the one.”

“He lives here?”

“Has a nice estate over by Lake Pontchartrain. He’s a very prolific- that’s an understatement- figure here, Tony.”

“And?”

Arthur steepled his fingers and shook the flyaway hairs from his face.

_“And,_ we’re going to kill him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a very, very busy chapter, y’all. This entire work will most likely suffer the acid trip pacing of a Baz Lurhmann film. Oops.
> 
> Spoiler: Spider’s on the menu, folks- and not in the way that he thinks he is.
> 
> Also! The Maynes are simply a nod to the Magnes but are not actually meant to be them. 
> 
> Songs used are “Let’s Misbehave,” by Irving Aaronson and his Commanders, 1928, and “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans” by Turner Layton & Henry Creamer, 1927 (Layton also having been the owner of a Phantom II).
> 
> Again, please feel free to comment, leave kudos, criticism, or inbox me either here or at my tumblr @voodoonot! 
> 
> I’m still unsure of what my posting schedule will look like for this work, but it will probably be sporadic. Aiming for a chapter or two a month right now.
> 
> -Cabbage

**Chapter Two**

_-Friday, December 15, 1933-_

Alastor Mandeville was swiftly becoming the South’s most renowned radio personality. He was a charismatic bachelor in his prime, dressed with a ceaseless smile and exuding bona fide finesse. His voice was so captivatingly strange that it only felt very familiar to the whole of his audience, no hint of Creole roots exposed beneath the show of a Transatlantic that he put on air. No one knew a single thing about him (except for that he was adequately wealthy, and that he had once stated that he enjoyed deer hunting)- neither where he came from, nor what he did behind closed doors. A tinge of olive to his flesh and his otherwise dark, but _good_ features prompted hearsay of mixed blood. He was more than popular with the ladies, and while _always_ polite, he seemed wholly ignorant of their advances upon him. There was some record in the last decade, however, of his modest involvement with a bombshell of a nightclub owner who had since met an untimely disappearance. Alastor did not speak of her. 

He drove the latest Rolls-Royce Phantom II in a rich crimson that, somehow, no one had ever been able to follow completely to wherever he dwelled somewhere down the long dirt roads. The automobile would arrive on North Peters Street every morning at ten on the dot, and leave at precisely seven in the evening. The radio station that Alastor worked at lay just across Latrobe Park, where he could be found at his lunch hour, never eating but regularly lighting up a smoke. 

A little shotgun house deep in the belly of the bayou was where the radio host took up residency, tucked away in Spanish moss from the cacophony of the city. Cypress and wax myrtle trees grew rampant and green and threw their shade across the gabled porch, which was encompassed with delicate Queen Anne’s lace and dying lycoris. Its interiour was neatly lavished with the necessities, and with its wooden shelves fringed with glass jars that brimmed with sun-dried spices and herbs. Alastor took particular pride in lining the wall above his fireplace with his most prized white-tail and chital head mounts from hunts of years past. He also had a small nook of books- foremostly classic literature, and a few more contemporary pieces. He was a blossoming Agatha Christie fanatic, and was presently keeping a half-read copy of her work, _Peril of End House,_ at his bedside table, alongside a tray of oils, incenses, beads, and a trio of tall candles. A crucifix hung over his bed. In the living area, he entertained a RCA-Victor cathedral radio and a brass HMV gramophone. 

Tonight he was occupying the company of one Miss Charlotte Mayne, the doe-eyed daughter of some old money politician with Northern roots. She had come forth from out of the suffocating smoke of a French Quarter nightclub and confessed that he had stolen her heart, to which he had smiled politely and offered her a ride home. 

Charlotte never returned to her father’s prestigious estate, for Alastor did indeed steal her heart.

And Alastor had hung her from the ceiling of the shotgun house by a hook, and he had sliced her entrails from her core, pulled her leather from her muscle, quartered her limbs from their joints, and severed her pretty little flaxen head from her shoulders. Steam rose in coils from her freshly butchered carcass as he knelt by it on the hardwood, dark gaze glazed over in ecstasy and her bloodied, heated heart held in a hand. Pearly white gnashed down on scarlet flesh with a _squelch_ and a spontaneous spatter to the walls.

Behind Alastor, a vocal refrain crackled from the brass gramophone.

_“When Adam won Eve's hand_ _  
_ _He wouldn't stand_ _  
_ _For teasin'_ _  
_ _He didn't care about_ _  
_ _Those apples out of season!_

_Let’s misbehave!”_

* * *

_-Monday, December 18, 1933-_

Anthony avoided working women like the plague. Arthur, on the contrary, sought them out in what he referred to as _“trying times,”_ and had brought a pair of them into his hotel bed the previous night. In his own room, Anthony _tried_ with all of his might to muffle the creak of bed springs and moans with a pillow pressed taut to his head. By six that morning, it was evident to him that he would not be getting any sleep. And so, he dressed himself in pink pinstripes and left the Monteleone half an hour before sunrise, with only a very vague idea as to where he was going but with all of the determination to get there anyway.

New York was an endeavour. New Orleans, he found, was an _experience._

The moment that he stepped out from the hotel, he was met with a small jazz band playing the first few notes of _Way Down Yonder in New Orleans_. On the next street over, a woman in skirts was placing a beaded necklace over a man’s head and conversing with him in that strangely accented French. There was a pharmacy brimming with species jars, full of herbs and minerals and animal products. Gated cemeteries were vast and full of imposing above-ground tombs. The Mississippi was already bustling with steamboats and their busy bell bottoms loading and unloading passengers and crates stocked with goods.

Then there was a _swanky_ Rolls-Royce parked outside of a café that made Anthony stop dead in his tracks. It was as red as expensive wine and just as smoothly intoxicating to take in. It patently made his ‘29 Model A back in Brooklyn look like a steaming pile of horse manure. 

“You look a little lost, my flamboyantly-clad fellow.”

Anthony spun around. Alastor was flush behind him, beaming from ear to ear with teeth as white as a newly deceased albatross. 

“Do you like what you see, Anthony?”

The boy swallowed thickly, narrowing his stare at the radio star. The man certainly looked far more put together than he had on the previous day, clothed in a tweed coat that he’d accented with a red spider lily and a chocolate bow-tie. Brunet hair was immaculately sideswept beneath a straw boater. Round spectacles glinted brightly in the morning sun and the black coffee gaze behind them glimmered. He leaned on an antler-handled magnolia cane. 

Anthony nodded slowly, only a quarter aware that the question had been in regards to the Phantom II. 

“Good! Perhaps you would like to join me for a ride? After breakfast, that is.” A leather-gloved hand beckoned Anthony toward the cafè’s door. “My treat. I don’t imagine you’ve ever had a beignet!”

Beignets, Anthony noted, were zeppole on a larger scale. They were dusted in a cloud of powdered sugar, and plated alongside golden honey and a steaming cappuccino, much to his sweet-toothed delight. The cafè itself was a quaint little thing with floral wallpaper in delicate pastels and white lattice bistro tables. Their waitress was rather the same, slight and pretty with her tawny hair in a fashionable bob and her eyes set inconspicuously upon Alastor. She spoke sheepishly when offering her service to the pair, to which Alastor took no heed and to which Anthony very much took heed in amusement.

“I take it you enjoyed the beignets?” 

Anthony shook himself to and nodded.

“Yeah, they ain’t bad. Thanks for the breakfast, by the way.”

Alastor hummed in approval.

“You never did answer my inquiry yesterday.”

The boy shot him a quizzical look, blinking rapidly and all but recalling the entirety of their previous exchange. 

“What brings you here?” Alastor reiterated. 

The last of his beignet swallowed, Anthony had little excuse not to answer.

The Ragnos had gained notoriety across the country as the most minacious lot of mobsters that New York State had to offer. Left on the back burner, however, Anthony was regularly interpreted as being an average civilian with a venturesome taste in fashion, unless he explicitly outed himself- and even then, there were mumbles sympathising with Henry’s choice to rarely- or probably, _never_ , mention Anthony’s existence. Nevertheless, by blood, he was still a Ragno, a fact that Alastor needn’t know. And so, he lied, like a liar.

“It was my brother’s idea.”

Alastor’s brows raised in vaguely interested unison, urging the blush-suited boy to further elabourate as he sipped at his coffee. With a moment to resituate unruly strands of his hair, and to adjust his lapels and bow-tie, Anthony mustered up the audacity to very deliberately seek out the radio star’s eye contact.

“Just on holiday for th’ week, nothin’ fancy. Weather’s much more hospitable here than it is in New York this time o’ year.”

Anthony wasn’t a skilled liar, try as he might, and perception was a double-edged sword indeed. Neither party said another word, leaving the younger’s answer as it was. Alastor only nodded, gave a low titter in levity, drained the last of his coffee, and then stood with all of the grace of a stag. The straw boater that hung from the left ear of the lattice chair was plucked up with slender fingers and placed promptly upon his pretty head. He tilted it toward the door in a gesture for Anthony to follow, and Anthony did just that. 

* * *

Anthony was not in his room- nor seemingly at the hotel at all, much to Arthur’s ire when he vacated his own room sometime after half past seven that morning. He had knocked on Anthony’s door with a growing intensity until a neighbour poked their head out from behind their own in aggravation, accompanied by a rather nasty string of words and a slam.

He made his way to the lobby, exasperated, and wished that the hotel’s bar was open already. He would need at least a bottle and a half of bourbon to survive the day, at this rate.

His father had been planning this clip for months- most likely even longer, and then he waited until the very last moment to act on it. Arthur knew better than to question Henry’s spontaneity, however much it irritated him. And then, of course, the don had said that he expected his two sons home by the holidays- which left them with a week to whack the Crescent City’s most prolific man like a chicken and then to deal with the spring cleaning after the fact. Beyond inconvenienced, Arthur had- save for the premeditated every-other-nightly feminine distraction to keep him grounded- _every_ intention to keep to that deadline. The sooner that Mayne had a bullet between the eyes, the better. 

However- _of course, however-_ in his typical fashion, Anthony was already doing _everything_ to stray, and it had hardly been half a day since their arrival. Henry’s orders to include Anthony on the job (at least the Caprios had work ethic) had Arthur vexed out of his mind and indignant when his father had refused to hear any protestation about it- about how _You never include Tony in these things_ , and _He doesn’t know how to take anything seriously,_ and _You think he ain’t man enough and that’s why he gets put on clean-up after us instead_ , _so why include him now?_

But, then again, perhaps having Anthony out of his hair was an advantage. 

Half an hour later, Arthur was joined at the doors by Rusty and Dusty. The trio then travelled to Lake Pontchartrain, and sat at a restraunt’s patio for breakfast with the Mayne estate in their sights. There was only the start of a discussion of the property’s layout and Mayne’s daily routine amongst the men before the roaring approach of an engine could be heard. 

A red Rolls-Royce raced by at top speed, leaving them in its dust. The Caprios syncopatedly stared after it, awestruck. Arthur was not so impressed, his brows furrowed and his dark features distorted in a snarl. 

“Who the hell is _that_ bastard?”

* * *

“And _that_ is the _prestigious_ Mayne estate, established in the mid-nineteenth century,” Alastor announced as they drove past, putting on a practised and theatrical Transatlantic, “and is formerly the most successful sugarcane and tobacco plantation in New Orleans. Before tobacco mosaic disease struck it, that is! _Very_ unfortunate.”

Anthony only caught a glimpse of the grounds as the Phantom II flashed past it, at the self-evident Greek revival columns, the curved stairs and semi-detached wings, and the grove of evergreen magnolias that embraced the long path leading up to the antebellum estate. A white Dusenberg was parked at its front.

“It is currently owned by Mister Lucien Mayne and his wife, Lillian.”

“The jazz singer, Lillian Mayne?”

“That’s her! Of course, she’s off-site, presently. Touring overseas for the month and due to return at the New Year.”

“Oh.” Anthony turned his attention back to Alastor.

There was a glint of mania in the radio star’s eyes as the Phantom II weaved through traffic like a bat out of Hell. Despite not being the fastest model of the day, it was certainly exceeding the speed limit by at least twenty units, which, Anthony concurred, was the only way _to_ drive. 

Anthony decided that he liked Alastor.

“Would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow evening, Anthony?”

The mafioso settled back in his seat with crossed arms, tempering the tizzy that Alastor was sending him into yet again. He smiled coyly, albeit confident in his answer.

“I’d really like that, Al.”

“Wonderful! Although, I suppose it would be beneficial if I knew where to pick you up from and where to leave you.”

“The Monteleone.”

Alastor hummed, but said nothing.

The pair arrived at the hotel front shortly, and Anthony watched from its doors as the Phantom II drove out of sight on its way toward North Peters Street. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, and when he was done, he glanced down at his feet, and he smiled.

* * *

The Phantom II pulled up the shotgun house as the sun drowned beneath the waters of the bayou. 

Alastor entered and made a beeline for the gramophone, fitted it with a vinyl record, and pinned the needle down upon it. The first notes resounded off of the jar-laden walls, and the man hummed along as he spun around on a heel and waltzed toward the fireplace. 

_“Well, way down yonder in New Orleans in the land of_

_the dreamy scenes_

_There's a Garden of Eden, that’s what I mean,”_

Something hard pushed back against the sole of his Oxford and he paused, then bent down to examine it. What he found was a bracelet- a small and simple gold band, easily twenty-four karat, encrusted with white diamonds and indisputably all that remained of his latest guest. The spangled evening gown and shoes that she’d donned had since been burnt to smithereens in his fireplace. How this particular article of jewellery had for three days escaped the pyre, he was uncertain. At twenty-four karats- malleable and pure- Alastor weighed its resilience against flame with the alternative of simply tossing it away to the mercy of the swamp. 

_“Yeah, Creole babies with flashin' eyes softly whisper_

_with tender sighs_

_Oh, won't you give your lady fair a little smile_

_You bet your life you'll linger there a little while,”_

He lit a match, and with its flame, brought the bed of firewood to life with a thundering roar. The crackling inferno from it rose high, twisting and twining and tugging toward Alastor in avarice. The radio star gave a minute flick of his wrist and sent the bracelet spiralling into the pit. The flames leapt upon it like a pack of hungry wolves and swallowed it whole. 

There was a film that cast itself over Alastor’s dark stare, reminiscent of the beady glass eyes set deep in the skulls of the three stags that were mounted above the mantelpiece. Hellfire danced across handsome features overcome with fixation, intense and unyielding and decisively destructive.

_“Yeah, there is Heaven right here on Earth with those_

_beautiful queens_

_Yeah, way down yonder in New Orleans,”_

The gramophone emitted a low frizzle when its needle reached the final grooves of vinyl, and at long last, Alastor turned away and sauntered staunchly toward the kitchen. With the final trace of Charlotte Mayne discarded, there were dinner preparations to be made with rather the change of menu. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This took forever to finish, y’all, I’m sorry! If you guys can pick up on some of the references in this chapter, leave ‘em in the comments below. ;D Kudos and all comments and constructive critique are much appreciated. Chapter Four should be expected by the start of next month, hopefully. 
> 
> -Voodoo <3

**Chapter Three**

_-Monday, December 18, 1933-_

“Where the hell have you been, _stronzino?”_

When Arthur returned to the Monteleone sometime that evening with the Caprios in tail, he had stumbled across Anthony at its bar with a half-had cocktail held in his hand. The boy responded with an insouciant raise of his brows, leaning with his head in his hand and Arthur was sheer seconds away from reaching for his infuriatingly pink bow-tie and strangling him with it. 

“Out.” 

_“Out?”_

“Outside.” Anthony gave an off-handed glance toward the front doors, matter-of-factly. 

Arthur inhaled, and for the sake of his brother’s lack of self-preservation, composed himself. He grasped him by the shoulder, shot a telling glance at Rusty and Dusty (who punctually sat themselves at the bar and ordered a pair of Bloody Marys), and led him to a vacant corridor. He lit a cigar and leaned an arm up against the wall, shaking his head and sniggering scornfully.

“Tony, Tony, _Tony.”_

Anthony crossed his arms over his chest and slumped against the wall in turn, huffing and half-rolling his eyes. He smirked.

“Can I help you, Artie?”

“If you’d asked that earlier, we wouldn’t be havin’ this discussion right now. We ain’t here on vacation, Anthony. Or did you forget that already?”

“Why is it,” the younger started with a bitter scoff, “that suddenly, you have expectations for me?”

“Pops has expectations for you.”

“Same thing.”

Arthur pressed his lips into a thin line and clenched his jaw. If it truly was the same thing, then the boy would have, on most occasions, the sense not to be so obtusely impertinent. 

“Because it’s about time you be a man and start takin’ things seriously.”

Anthony laughed. And laughed, and laughed some more. 

_“_ Sure. You want serious? Pops has treated me like a _joke_ my entire fuckin’ life and you know it, _leccaculo_ ” he sneered, his words laced with venom. “So, naturally, I’m gonna act like a joke, because that’s what I am, ain’t it?”

“Anthony-“

_“Ain’t it, Artie?”_

Anthony stood upright with a guarded sniffle, straightening the fedora atop his head.

“You and I both know that this whole shtick will go much smoother if I ain’t involved, so stop fuckin’ actin’ like you need my help before you even start. And don’t talk to _me_ about bein’ a _man.”_

It was a statement that Arthur couldn’t bring himself to argue with, and so he stood there, glowering. Glowering, because he knew well that Anthony possessed the raw potential and skill that it took to make a great mafioso, but glowering because he knew well that Henry’s hatred for one minor flaw in Anthony’s design had restricted the refinement of that potential aptitude. Glowering, because there was nothing to be done for it. 

“So you’re just gonna fuck off for the entire week while me and the boys do the real work?”

“That’s the idea.”

Arthur frowned, silent. 

“If you need me,” Anthony said, “which you won’t, I’ll be in New Orleans.”

He turned on a heel and was gone.

* * *

  
- _Tuesday, December 19, 1933-_

It was nearing seven o’clock, and Alastor was vacating the radio station with his tweed coat draped over an arm as he locked up. The sun had set roughly three hours ago, and though the atmosphere was still ceaselessly humid, there was a chill in it that sent a shiver down the radio host’s spine. He put the Phantom II in gear and started his way toward the French Quarter, toward Royal Street, toward the Monteleone- and, ultimately, toward one Mister Anthony Yankee-Tourist. 

There was _something_ elicitive about said boy that the radio personality could not place a finger on. And while it was a wholly true descriptor for _all_ of the man’s dupes, there existed some scintilla of strangeness about Anthony that only made him all the more enticing. As the vehicle rolled up to the hotel, Alastor attempted to decipher it all for himself. He parked right outside of the brass doors, training hazel eyes upward to behold the hotel’s ornate baroque facade, and at its balconies brimming with marigolds. 

He found Anthony beneath the golden light of a sconce, leaning against the white marble wall with a lit cigarette held between his teeth. Like the brass instruments that warbled only a street away, he stood there with a grey blazer thrown over a shoulder, moody and cool- if not a sliver impish when his slate gaze fell upon the Phantom. In three stilt-legged strides, he was leaning on his elbows through the passenger side’s open window, regarding Alastor with a tilted smirk. 

“Hey, Al.”

“Hello, Anthony.”

He put his cigarette out on the lamppost beside him, and let its remains crumble to the asphalt below before climbing into the luxury automobile. Alastor didn’t wait for him to strap himself in before viciously slamming down on the gas with a terrible caterwaul of protest from abused wheels. Anthony lurched forward from the inertia, only able to stop his head from slamming into the windshield by grasping firmly onto the dashboard and pushing himself against it, grinning as wide and as maniacally as the not-so-tall, somewhat dark, and wholly handsome man beside him. 

“So where’re ya planning on takin’ me, big shot?” he yelled over the impossible roar of the engine. 

Alastor swiveled his head to regard him with wild eyes, nearly colliding into two other vehicles and three pedestrians, but somehow evaded them by sheer force of fortune. 

“My place, _cher!”_

_His place._ Anthony smirked to himself, pressing his elbow against the door and spending the entire half-hour drive entertaining _that_ idea.

* * *

“Now, Creole jambalaya is _red,_ because tomatoes are used. And I am Creole, so I make it red.” 

Alastor and Anthony stood side by side in the shotgun house’s kitchen, with their coats discarded and their sleeves rolled up as they diced up onion, celery, bell pepper (Alastor had referred to them as the “holy trinity”), tomatoes, and a few other vegetables on separate cutting boards. Anthony listened and watched intently as the brunet first began sautéing the andouille and chicken, claiming that this created the best flavour, before adding the vegetables into the pot. Anthony stepped aside to stir in the rice, and waited for it to simmer before covering the pot with a lid and placing it in the oven. He had offered to help Alastor prepare their meal enthusiastically, especially when he was presented with a New Orleans culinary staple. Alastor was insistent that, as a tourist, Anthony _must_ try it, and was more than happy to give his guest a rundown of the area’s culture.

“This is my mother’s recipe,” he continued, “which is prepared a little differently than what is traditional, but we found that it elicits a superiour flavour profile and dynamic. I’m biased, of course.”

He spun on a heel and placed a hand at the small of Anthony’s back, gesturing for him to take over preparing the shrimp and scallions as he gathered a few things from the pantry and refrigerator. He poured bourbon and sugar over some quartered strawberries in a bowl and flashed a sheepish grin at Tony. 

“This is normally done with raisins, but I personally can’t stand the things.”

“Ah, me either. Might as well chew on some dead flies.” 

“Which I am certain is enjoyable, if you are a spider,” Alastor chuckled. In another bowl, he whisked together cream, three eggs, vanilla extract, salt, more bourbon, butter. He took a loaf of French bread and cubed it, before tossing it into the liquid mixture.

He moved back over to help Anthony pull the pot from the oven, stirring in the shrimp and scallions before abandoning it for a few more minutes to transfer their dessert into a pan, and then into the oven. Bourbon, cream, cinnamon, and butter were made into a sauce, before Alastor finally plated the jambalaya and gestured for Anthony to sit with him at the table. 

Tony was, needless to say, delighted with the _dynamic flavour profile_ that had been accomplished, although he noted that the andouille was exceptionally lean for being pork-based. Alastor had said something about making his own from scratch, which was odd given that he kept no livestock. Anthony thought not much of it (Alastor probably outsourced the pork from a local farmer or, perhaps, hunted wild boar, which _was_ leaner) and savoured the strangely nostalgic taste without question. He watched in shock as Alastor all but emptied a fourth of a small bottle of Tabasco sauce into his own serving and consumed a sizable forkfull without so much as a grimace. 

A quarter of a bottle, evidently, proved to be inadequate, and Tony could only watch in unadulterated mortification as Alastor continued to shake the bottle over his meal.

“What are you doing?” he deadpanned. 

“Tabasco.” 

“That’s _enough.”_

“I’m _Creole, sha-_ there isn’t food hot enough for me.”

“Oh, you’re gonna be sorry.” 

Anthony screwed his face up and could feel his own taste buds boiling as Alastor gave the jambalaya another taste test, and again, maintained an impossible poker face- well, almost; there was the _vaguest_ twitch of an eye that Anthony would not have caught onto had he not been so hyper fixated on registering every minute microexpression on his host’s face. He didn’t attempt to add more hot sauce, and that was telling enough.

“You are _so_ tough,” Anthony teased, giving an indignant shake of his head. “Such a _man._ Well, now you’ve gotta share half of mine.” 

“I don’t like jambalaya, it’s too hot,” Alastor snorted, and proceeded to pick at his food as his guest burst out laughing. 

They continued to eat in a comfortable silence, and Anthony found himself intermittently glancing up at the charming creature across from him from beneath long lashes. And then impulse- a repeating offender- possessed the mafioso; a force that had him throwing his long legs over to straddle the radio star before they even had the chance to get halfway through their meals. 

He could feel Alastor’s entire being stiffen beneath him. 

He brought a hand up and carded it through the older man’s wavy, chocolate locks, and craned his neck so that his lips could place their affections down upon Alastor’s finely chiseled jaw. His unpreoccupied hand found its fingertips dancing across the delve at the other’s collarbone, before they dragged down, down, down, to a sharp rise of hip bone. As he pulled his head away, he found himself lost in those dark honeycomb irises, illuminated brightly like oozing molasses in the low golden lamplight. The abysmal black pupils within did not, as expected, dilate, but began to shrink down and film over in what Anthony only recognised, from personal experience, as mania.

And then there was a sharpness pressing against his jugular and the awful, abrupt caterwaul of wooden chair against wooden floor and a crash as a second chair was throttled backward to the ground. In something like a tango _(slow, slow, quick, quick, slow)_ , Anthony wrapped a firm hand around Alastor’s offending wrist and had, in very vast and stalking and precise steps, spun the man taut against the kitchen wall with a Colt pistol pressed to his temple. Alastor, in turn, unwaveringly kept his dull kitchen knife pressed against his guest’s throat with a smug smile. 

Anthony had his finger taut against the trigger, and Alastor had the business end of the blade pressed right against that delicate artery. Neither man moved in any manner in the static silence that deluged the dark room- not a croak from the frogs nor a chirp from the crickets. Nothing but white noise and a sharp ringing that pierced through their skulls with such a ferocity that they didn’t deign to even blink or breathe.

Alastor’s pupils had shrunk down to a somehow _more_ horrifying fraction of what they should have been in the dim light, and his rictus grin only grew by the centimetre with each passing second. 

“It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

“A _stalemate?”_ echoed Anthony, chuckling vaguely with his nose crinkled in disbelief. “I’m the one with the gun, pal. You’re the one up against the wall. I have the upper hand.”

“You think you have an advantage at this proximity?”

There was a pause, and Anthony arched a dark, inquisitive brow. 

“Then what do you suggest for the next move, _dolcezza?”_

“For starters?” the radio star snarled. “Get your hands _off of me.”_

Anthony complied tentatively, and took two steps back with unimpressed regard to Alastor. 

Alastor’s circulation had ceased in the minutes that Anthony had held his wrist in place, and when he was free, the knife dropped instantaneously to the hardwood with a metallic clink. He watched as Anthony emptied the pistol of its ammunition and returned the firearm to some secret sewn-in pocket in his coat. _That_ was certainly a detail that piqued his interest, along with the boy’s outlandish prowess for defence reflex. 

Alastor could be ignorant, but he was as sharp as a boning blade. 

“Anthony,” he drawled, his brows raised in unison. “Anthony. Anthony _what?”_

“Ragno.”

There it was. 

Only the sound of Alastor’s Oxfords falling upon the floor could be heard, as he stalked a predatory circle around his company. Anthony stood still as a statue and let it happen, feeling as though Alastor was undressing him, and peeling his skin from his being with his gaze alone. 

_“Ragno,”_ the radio host chuckled lowly, stationing himself before the boy. “Oh, I only covered a story about you last month. _Lions?”_

“And here I thought law enforcement was tellin’ the media the guy was mentally fucked and jumped into the exhibit on his own accord,” Tony crooned dangerously, tilting his head to the side as he matched Alastor’s perilous stare. “Bamboozled my pa outta two-k, he had it comin’.” 

Alastor’s smile slowly began to fall into a thin line on his lips, and it became inaudibly apparent that he had an onslaught of questions racing through his ever-calculating mind. Anthony felt himself relaxing as he stood his ground, in the way that a body decompresses at its moment of death. 

_“Your father,”_ Alastor reiterated monotonously. “Typically, it’s _Arthur_ who makes the news. The last time that I heard anything about _you_ , it was four years ago after that massacre in Queens. And even then, you were only ever mentioned briefly for captaining the getaway vehicle.”

Anthony scoffed. Of course the _South’s most renowned radio star_ who he had never heard of before kept up with current events regarding garbage business from the North.

“I s’ppose I shouldn’t be surprised. International law enforcements know all about us- and, apparently, so do meddlin’ radio hosts, now. Pa don’t talk about me much, and I’m usually left to the dirty work. You know- getaway, spring cleaning, foot soldiering, _per l'Omertà.”_

Alastor only flashed him a grin, like a cat who had just eaten the family canary. He looked Anthony up unabashedly, scrutinisingly. 

“I can’t see why. You appear to be formidably skilled in your own right.“

“Because I’m a freak.” 

“Yes, it’s very clear that you’re a pansy, but if you have the skill-“ 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Anthony hissed, and shoved a gloved finger into Alastor’s chest with no regards for personal space whatsoever. “What’s your fuckin’ deal? You’ve been coming onto me for _days,_ and you get cold feet the moment that I make a move?” 

Everything fell into place as he finished speaking, and his eyes stretched wide in realisation. Mafia born and bred, he knew the eyes of a killer when he saw them. He knew it from his own reflection. 

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say this ain’t your first attempt, is it, sweetheart?”

“No.” 

The nonchalance in Alastor’s reply told Anthony all that he needed to know; Alastor had been at this game for years, and he was winning it with, likely, little legal competition on his tail. He looked at Anthony like a child who was experiencing his first picture show, thoroughly enthralled with some new form of entertainment that he’d never had the capacity to imagine for himself.

Anthony’s hand clenched around Alastor’s collar, and the blond threw his head back and howled with laughter, as if he’d just been told the funniest joke in all of existence. When he came down from his high, he beheld Alastor with a wide crescent of a smile on his face and his pupils blown out like he had just insufflated the world’s supply of cocaine. Alastor matched his madcap countenance to a tee.

“Ain’t that _adorable._ ” He shoved Alastor away harshly, and sauntered into the living area to drape himself over the leather settee. “And ya still think that this is a stalemate?”

Alastor blinked owlishly before trailing behind him like blood spatter, leaning on his arms over the back of the settee with his pearly whites on proud display. 

“A stalemate only entails that we keep playing, _cher_.”

“Sure. You wanna keep playin’?” Anthony scoffed. “Check: Dessert’s burnin’, smiles.” 

_“Ah- Merde.”_


End file.
